


Salvage

by CadyWimzie



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: 'cause heel Dean is simultaneously bugging and fascinating me, Character Study, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Angst, lots of italics, so what to do? write about him of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 09:14:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16971819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CadyWimzie/pseuds/CadyWimzie
Summary: Set during the 12/10/18 taping of RAW.Dean thinks.As of right now, at least, the thoughts are not good ones-- and they aren't about happy things.





	Salvage

After a gag-worthy video package like that, what more needed to be said?

Dean left Charly in that hall, away from her cameras and her mics and her video evidence explaining exactly why he had every right to feel guilty for his despicable actions. They were  _deplorable_ , after all, and he wasn't much for words. He couldn't say anything to make himself look better, even if he wanted to.

He opted to traverse the backstage area instead, already knowing where he'd go when the time struck. If Seth didn't see him out on the stage after his match's finish, he would be gutted. So totally, completely disappointed. What were weekly shows before pay-per-view events even for, if not for things like that? Seth probably missed his mug-- although Lord knew Dean just saw enough of it on that screen.

Maybe 'moral compass' was a bit much. Maybe there were some fumes stuck up in that gas mask better left un-sniffed or something. Huh.

One thing he knew for sure was that he didn't  _like_ how it was just  _presumed_ that everything could go back to normal and yet have the  _gall_ to be different. Different in ways that, to him, weren't just. It was almost beyond him, but not enough to lack, in his opinion, even the most  _basic_ understanding of the problem.

He never got his.  _His_. That was the problem, right? What a crazy and wild idea that getting stabbed in the back by someone you called a brother could loosen a few screws in your brain. Not screws that reject zany thoughts and hilariously  _bad_ but entirely foolproof revenge scheming, but screws that help keep things  _functioning_. Keep a person feeling even slightly  _well_  for longer than a few seconds.

It was four years ago. He wasn't a weak-minded dolt; he was actually pretty sure he  _had_ gotten over it, or else the crippling nag in the back of his mind was disguising itself really, really well.

But the longer he wore around the vest and the dog tags, searching for familiar warmth by association and feeling like maybe something was wrong with him because he couldn't find any, acting like his old self but  _obviously not really_... Did it not make sense to anybody else that he had never in his entire life felt  _less_ like Dean Ambrose?

This wasn't the infamous '060214' crap that was plaguing him back then. This was more like the dumb aftermath of that. Seth was loved, Roman was... sort of loved(?), but for the past few years the topic of that was pretty sketch; he only ever wanted to be a champion those gross people saw all the time, and how dare he, right?

Maybe Dean was loved. Emphasis on 'was', of course. He remembered the cheers and the little kids reaching out to fist bump him-- more vividly than any of the other stuff, actually. He stopped waiting for initiation from the audiences and just started diving right into them, as a matter of fact.  _Tactile_.

He never cared much for touch back when The Shield had its first run. Off topic, but truthful. His outward appearance was fine; he didn't need anybody trying to screw it up. That very even- _less-_ than arm's length relationship sounded nice once again, and he had no interest in letting those parasites  _see him_  be kind. He knew who he was.

These people go on giving him this cute  _nickname_  commemorating the mental state he needed to be in to take care of anti-business four years ago, and for whatever reason, it  _stuck_? That was the thing that stuck?

What ever happened to The Dude? The Maniacal Mouthpiece? That second one still played on the whole 'crazy' shtick without making him sound like an utter dumbass who couldn't let things go.

...Y'know, maybe that  _was_  his issue. An uneven score still biting at him; not being able to stand what the record books show, with no messy feelings attached. Not just paranoia that Seth would pull the same shit again and hurt him twice.

Dean  _knew_ he wouldn't do that, and that was coming from a place that channeled nothing but negative emotion toward the guy. Spite.

But was it spite? Maybe it was less, "I hate you. Take this," and more...  _necessity_. "I  _need_ to make your life hell right now. I can't not."

Dean didn't like needing things, but at the end of the day, he supposed he needed this. Needed this exchange. Like that RAW years prior, when Seth hopped off the ring apron and left him and Roman languishing, refusing to help them,  _walking out on them_... and the next week he brazenly asked Dean what it would take to get  _his_ anger out of his system and make  _him_ feel better, and the only thing Dean could think to do was throw a punch so full of fury and outrage that it rattled The Shield to its core and left chinks in it the size and density of bullet holes.

 _Are we done here?_ Seth had asked, getting right back up and letting Dean _have_ the shot; not hitting him back. _Or are we **done**?_ 

The Shield didn't end that night. Why in the hell would it have? The only way you can beat a shield is by splitting it down the middle; breaking it in half, so it  _isn't_ a shield anymore.

Dean couldn't be sure if the absolute  _atrocity_ he committed a few weeks back did that or not. Whether it dismantled this stupid, metaphorical shield into two halves or merely chucked it, whole, into a dauntingly large trash heap where only an insane amount of bare hand digging could get it loose-- if you even wanted to work that hard.

Maybe time would be the judge of that. He knew many things to be true about himself and this business, but the solid fact that he would look  _fine_ in IC blue-and-gold mattered the most, and Seth didn't seem all that ready to part with said belt.

That was fine. Dean knew one  _other_  thing he would part with, though: that steady mind of his. His cool.

His former tag team partner was perched high up on that ladder, looking like he had it all together. Provided the height and distance, they were at eye level. Staring each other down. Hating each other so _very_ much, like they never stopped. Some second nature, "it always comes back to this"-level loathing.

Dean knew-- for sure this time-- that he would find no _warmth by association_ in this man for a long, long time, if ever again. The vice versa was probably just as true, though, but when it came to specifics, he really didn't care what Seth was thinking.

Seth was  _focused_ , and that was just how Dean liked to see him, always, whether they were fighting for or against each other. Never a bad time.

Judgmental eyes bore into Dean, and it was almost as bad as touching to him. He shook out his right wrist and rolled his head, shutting out the light from the LEDs by closing his eyes and drinking in the collective ruction-- all directed at him. 

He wasn't making a move and neither was his TLC opponent. To do so would be redundant, and they were mature adults with patient plans. 

Or, at the very least, Dean was. He would make things crystal clear on Sunday. 

Unless, of course, he didn't. Maybe the wind would decide that one. The real question of the matter was,  _"What would rile Seth more?"_

Certainly nothing else about Roman. Right?

Just... water off a duck's back, probably...

Dean retreated first in the end, turning tail and shoving aside those black curtains and storming off back the way he came. Seth wouldn't follow him; it wasn't that kind of night. The lines were drawn, but they wouldn't be crossed for another six days. The roar of the crowd faded as he carefully mulled this over, hardly noticing the wide berth folks were giving him in the halls.

He passed Charly again, and she, humorously enough, was the only one who didn't flinch-- didn't even  _blink_ \-- at his presence. Her job was to approach people four times her own size and ask them touchy questions, so he wasn't completely floored.

"What did you-?" She cut herself off hastily. She wasn't even trying to shove a mic in his face; just precautiously flinging the words over her shoulder.  _Who_  she was speaking to didn't matter for a few precious seconds, but it was all Dean needed to understand the gist of what she was unofficially going to ask him off-camera.

"What I do," he said, concisely. Not stopping, not looking. "I didn't lay a finger on him, if that's what you wanna know."

She said nothing after that. Probably considering rushing off to find Seth.  _Whatever_. 

Dean had been under the impression for so many years that his career was based on a persona that just didn't care. Didn't care what others thought about him, didn't care about the consequences of his actions, didn't care about his physical well-being...

But, as it turned out, he just mistook fearless irreverence for not caring. Insubordination and general tomfoolery.

Now? He was pretty sure he knew what  _not caring_  looked like. Saw it every time he looked in the mirror.

He didn't care about changing it, either.


End file.
